PDA

View Full Version : The Eight-Pointed Star



Grom
01-06-2005, 19:31
I walked upon a pure white field of bone, formed from the broken bodies of countless mortal warriors from every race and time. The spot upon which I planted my foot may have been the skull of some mighty hero of the elves, or the arm of a savage orc chieftain. I could not know. Now, it was merely dust, insensate and dead.

Around me, a battle raged. The sound of steel clashing upon steel rang in my ears, and the proud bellows of victorious champions lifted my heart, even as the piteous screams of the defeated rent my soul. The battlefield stretched as far as the eye could see, and further, out beyond the borders of mortal comprehension, as noble elves and sturdy dwarves, ferocious orcs and cold-blooded lizardmen, all fought for the greater glory of Khorne, in a battle that would never end. Even should the very fabric of reality crumble, and universe become cold and empty, and utterly bereft of life, even then would this battle continue, in celebration of the savage joys and the cruel horrors of war.

High above the field, raised up atop a great mound of skulls, visible only as a black shadow, outlined by the brooding crimson sky, which spread over this terrible world, stained with the blood of innumerable billions, was a gigantic throne, and it was toward this that I made my way, with faltering steps, as the battle swirled around me, and swords and axes swept harmlessly through my body, for this was not my place, and its denizens could do me no harm. For I still lived.

I climbed the mound of skulls slowly, my hands trembling in fear and anticipation of what lay at the top, and my sinews were stretched and my flesh bruised by the time that I finished the ascent, but finish it I did, and at last, I stood before the mighty brass throne of Khorne. And then, I saw him. Clad in ornate armour of black chaos metal, which sucked in the light from its surroundings, and bright brass, which glared out in contrast, he sat, his face, which was an unholy mix of dog and man, savagery and intelligence, moving slowly from side to side, as he watched the battle below. Occasionally, as he saw some great deed being done, his eyes, large and red, like bottomless wells of blood, lit up with pride, but then, when a warrior retreated in cowardice, his long, clawed fingers clenched into fists, his many brass rings catching the ruddy light, as his teeth gnashed together with the sound of thousand clashing swords. Across his knees lay a terrible black blade, of that the same dark soul-swallowing, metal which formed much of his armour, covered in twisted runes which glowed with an eerie red light. It called out to me, forcing open the doorways of my mind, filling my senses with an overpowering lust for blood and slaughter. I desired to feel the sharp, salty taste on my tongue, and luxuriated in the thought of that crimson liquid flowing over my hands. But most of all, I desired to sheath that sword in a mortal heart, and see it kill.

I stretched out my feeble hands toward the hilt, and then, he became aware of me. He turned his gaze upon my body and my mind, and spoke in a voice reminiscent of a dozen great warhorns bellowing their defiance.

‘You are not mine. Why?’

I quailed under that stentorian roar, and shrank back in abject terror.

‘Why? Do you not lust for the power which is gained through strength of arms?’

I straightened cautiously. This was but a dream, I thought to myself. I could come to no harm here.

‘Because war is evil. Any power gained through it is bought with the pain and suffering of war’s victims.’

And Khorne laughed, his amusement roaring out from his mouth like a storm, as those terrible blood-filled eyes pierced my soul, reading my memories as if they were engraved upon my flesh,

‘War is evil you say? Are not your greatest heroes warriors? Would you thus claim that Sigmar was evil? Or your current ruler, Karl Franz? Is it not true that war brings out all that is best in mortals? Strength, honour, courage: all these are brought forth by war.’

I nodded in acknowledgement,

‘But war also brings out all that is worst in men. Cruelty, savagery, brutality, and an uncaring lust for power which can drive a warrior to yet more evil deeds. And the virtues that you attribute to warriors are not unique to them. There exist in this world many strong farmers, honourable statesmen, and brave scholars.’

Khorne stared uncomprehendingly at me, and as I saw the blank confusion spread across his face, I realised that not only did he condone all the evils of war, but that he was also completely unable to understand that such deeds were indeed evil. To him, there could be nothing else. Yet nevertheless, I continued to speak. More to convince myself of the rightness of my words than for the his sake.

‘And yes, Sigmar, and Karl Franz, and other such warriors, are hailed as heroes among their fellow men. But they are not hailed as heroes merely because they are strong, or brave. They are hailed as heroes because they know war to be evil, and through that knowledge, they suffer just as greatly as every being that falls by their swords. They are heroes not because they are warriors, but because they are able to use evil to fight evil, without embracing it. I have not their strength. I know that should I sheath my sword in an enemy’s flesh, I would rejoice in that act, and thus, I cannot permit myself to follow the way of the warrior, for I will never let you have my soul.’

But as I spoke, he rose from his throne, towering above me like a mountain, and his sword rose with him.

‘Then I will take it.’

In sudden panic, I turned to flee, but tripped and fell, and as my head dropped down toward the grinning skulls, darkness took me.

Grom
01-06-2005, 19:31
When the light returned, the pervading colour was no longer the scarlet of spilt blood. Instead, the sky toward which I turned my eyes was a sickly green. Not the bright and healthy emerald of the grass and the leaves, but a vile and ailing olive, and the hard surface against which my head rested was no longer white bone, but cold, grey stone.

As full consciousness slowly returned, I laboriously stood, leaning on the headstone, for that was indeed what my head had fallen against, and looked around, to find myself surrounded by headstones, tombs and graves of every shape and size, poking out of a faint green mist which covered the ground. From simple crosses of wood, to towering mausoleums of black marble, the graveyard spread without visible limits on all sides. Occasionally a withered and stunted tree, long dead and beginning to rot, could be seen rising above the graves, but of living plants, there was no sign. No even the smallest blade of grass could be perceived poking up through the flat brown soil, which carpeted the land, without any noticeable changes in colour or texture.

And I was not alone in this place. Everywhere, hunched and bent figures scurried and hobbled, limped and shuffled, gibbering and moaning, some screaming in agony, others sobbing in horror. Moved less by curiosity than a desperate need to find some way of escaping this nightmarish land, I began to move among them.

The first creature who crossed my path seemed normal enough to begin with. A man of our own human race, he was bent and shrivelled by age, his back crooked, and his skin hung saggy and loose around his spindly frame. Sparse white hair covered his liver-spotted head, and he shuffled along in near silence, mumbling incoherently through his toothless gums. But when I looked more closely, I nearly forgot to breathe, such was my shock, for his chest did not rise or fall, and his eyes were blank and utterly lacking in any semblance of intelligence. It was then I realised that I was walking among the dead.

The being that followed him had been granted a far less congenial fate. Her approach was announced by a putrid reek which caused my stomach to revolt, and bile to come up into my mouth. She was young, possible no more than twenty-five years of age, with dishevelled blond hair that might once have been soft and silky, but which now was tangled and riddled with lice and other, even less savoury insects. Her skin, which in some few places still showed its former, pure, white and unblemished nature, was in some areas covered in boils and pustules, and in others, hung from her bones in bloody strips. She cavorted around in paradoxms of sheer agony, tearing at her own flesh with nails that were themselves loose and weak and hauling great clumps of hair from her diseased scalp, and saliva drooled from her bloody mouth, from which the teeth had freshly fallen, as she groaned and sobbed in despair.

I saw many other creatures such as these in my wanderings through the great graveyard. Some were more grotesque still, while others could have been mistaken for being alive and well, had their lifeless eyes not betrayed their true state. Such were the horrors I saw there, that I have forgotten most of them, except those first two, and those few others which stick in my mind, and haunt my dreams still, I cannot bring myself to tell of on this parchment.

I cannot say for how long I walked among the diseased dead. I know only that, after a length of time that seemed to be nearly infinite, my senses were assaulted by an overwhelming stench that defied description. All the horrors I had previously seen in no way prepared me for what greeted my eyes as I turned. Looming out of the green miasma was a gigantic figure, nearly spherical in shape, but with two legs just visible from under what appeared to be great rolls of fat, and a head, which although tiny in comparison to the whole, still dwarfed my pitiful frame. The skin of this foul creature was greenish, leathery and necrotic, its surface pock-marked with running sores and swelling boils, where it still adhered to the bones beneath at all, since in some places, it hung loose, revealing diseased white fat, or letting loose gouts of corrupt black blood. As my eyes found the centre of his stomach, my own belly revolted, and I vomited several times, before regaining self-control, for his decaying organs could be seen clearly, and some even protruded beyond his hide, so that his digestive juices, rank and yellow, poured free, mixing with rivers of excrement and bile. And from tiny pustules upon these huge organs, hanging like balloons above me, as if they might at any moment pop and release their full contents upon my hapless form, burst forth countless tiny daemons, each a miniature version of their terrible father, Nurgle, for this was he, the dread lord of decay in all his grotesque glory. They clung to his body, lapping up the pus and slime that dripped from his many sores, and nibbling at his fat with their rows tiny, but sharp teeth, like maggots of a corpse. And occasionally, he reached down with one tremendous hand, and seized a dozen of these beings, before stuffing them, still moving, into his cavernous maw, where he chewed for a moment, seemingly with relish, before allowing them to slide down his leprous throat. I crouched down, trying to evade his gaze, but, despite my efforts, his piggish eyes, peering out through his diseased flesh, found me, and held me. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and booming, and full of jocularity.

‘What have we here? Are you alive perhaps?’

I saw no reason to disguise the fact,

‘I am.’

He chuckled gently, causing ripples to spread throughout his obese body;

‘Ah well, you will be mine eventually. See, we’re already prepared for your arrival.’

He pointed to an object behind me. I turned cautiously, half-expecting what I saw, though it still caused my knees to weaken, and my heart to jump up into my throat. Not ten feet from where I stood lay an grey headstone, weathered by age, with a series of faint letters graven upon it. The letters that formed my own name. And at the sight of the date beneath, I almost lost my balance, as my head span and a feeling of faintness and buoyancy spread through my body. And even as I write, that date still sits, outlined in burning letters, at the forefront of my consciousness.

I took quite some time to regain my composure, as he sat and laughed uproariously at my obvious discomfort, his rancid breath washing over me in a foul wave of corruption. At last however, I forced myself to turn and face him.

‘You may have my body some day. But never my soul.’

His thin lips spread in a wide grin, revealing his rows of tiny, jagged teeth, and the tongue beyond, like a snake coiled with its lair.

‘That is what they all say at first, before disease grips them. Most cry out to me for a release from the pain, and I give them the tranquillity of death, for I am a merciful and kindly god. But some few others, clinging as hard as they may to life, whether for life’s own sake, or on account of some foolish and misguided fear of what lies after, they become the most blessed of all. They take unto themselves one of my most prized diseases, and help in the spreading of it, in exchange for a release from pain.’

‘I shall never embrace death, foul one, nor can I even begin to comprehend why any rational being, however evil, could bear to walk the earth as a corrupt and decaying corpse, riddled with disease. Rather I shall face my death with courage, as a man should, neither embracing it, nor retreating from it in fear.’

‘We shall see when the time comes, little one. Death is not all that bad a thing, it is necessary. Would you rather that the world be filled with the old, that the young would have no room to live their lives? And all that the spread of disease does, after all, is hasten death.’

He smiled in a way that might have been warm and friendly, had his appearance not been so utterly repugnant;

‘And as for my children, without the pain, they only suffer from the appearance of disease, and that makes them no worse off than any other being which men, in their foolishness, deem ‘ugly’, whatever that might mean.’

‘But disease does not merely take withered old men, it also reaps, as part of its bitter harvest, newborn babies, squalling in their cribs for a chance at life, and strong warriors, in the prime of their years. None are spared. And disease does not merely bring death, but also great pain beforehand.’

‘And is not old age a disease?’

‘It is, and I shall embrace it no more than any other.’

‘That is yet to be seen. But for now, I shall give you a little something to remember me by, so that when we next meet, you shall not be so eager to confront the lord Nurgle.’

As he spoke, I began to hear the dull droning of countless flies, and as I looked down, I saw that my skin too was now green, and riddled with disease, and I could see my entrails through the freshly-opened gaps in my rancid belly. Even as I stared in horror, my vision blurred, as my eyes fused into one, and I felt a terrible pain in the centre of my brow, as a single horn burst out from the bone beneath. And then, I recall beginning to scream. And my screaming continued until my ears were deadened, and my throat raw and swollen. And then, at last, I collapsed from exhaustion, and fell gratefully once more into the darkness.

Grom
01-06-2005, 19:32
This time, I awoke to the gentle scent of roses, and a fresh breeze caressing my face. I was floating upon a sea of music, which poured in through my ears, and infused my heart, my body, my mind, my entire being with its subtle harmony. It both lifted my spirit, and led my consciousness away into deep pools of calm reflection, as my body thrilled to its driving rhythms and elegantly interwoven melodies. For a while, I luxuriated in the feel of the soft grass against my skin, which, I sensed, had now somehow been freed of Nurgle’s foul rot. Then, after some indefinite length of time, I slowly opened my eyes, to find myself upon a grassy knoll, looking over a beautiful wooded valley, lit by a mellow golden light, which softly illuminated the scene, rather than glaring fiercely into my still-sleepy pupils. Through the middle of the valley ran a slender, meandering stream, and far off to the west, the sun’s light, which seemed to strengthen even as my eyes acclimatised, reflected off the stark beauty of a range of tall, snow-capped mountains, rising proudly toward the sky, and to the east, the sun itself could be seen, rising over the deep blue waters of the ocean. I stood silently for some time, bathing in the bottomless river of music, as I watched the tranquil beauty of the rising sun.

My reverie was broken abruptly by several loud peals of laughter emanating from the woods below my perch. Turning, I saw an attractive young woman, her long blond hair flowing out behind her, being pursued by an young man of the same age. A smile crept across my face at the sound of their innocent laughter and obvious joy, a smile which faded somewhat, as, without any concession to modesty, they both disrobed and made love on the grass, not ten yards from where I stood. Faintly disgusted by their vulgar promiscuity, I turned my back on the couple, and strode toward the tree line.

Birds flew among the trees, their bright plumage adding a touch of colour to the forest, as their songs merged imperceptibly with the ever-present music, and occasionally, a chittering squirrel scampered across my path, before racing back up into the branches above. I even saw a deer, stepping sedately around the great oaks, its proud antlers held up high. Eventually however, I passed into a small clearing, within which was a single elderly man, a glass of fine red wine in his hand, and a much-read tome, which I recognised as volume two of Olde Weirde’s histories, upon his knee. Sitting in a finely carved chair of wood, padded with sumptuous velvet cushions, he appeared to be completely content, and at peace with the world, and the gentle smile which lay upon his thin lips was echoed in his sparkling eyes. I approached him slowly, and spoke.

‘Greetings old man. Where, may I ask, is this place?’

But there was no answer. He made no sign that he had heard my words, or even that he was aware of my presence at all. Instead, he merely turned to the next page of Olde Weirde’s histories, and took a small sip of his wine, which he swallowed with evident relish. I hailed him again, more loudly this time, and when he did no respond, I waved my hand before his face, but still, he did not seem to see me.

‘He cannot see you. Neither can he hear you, or smell you, or touch you, or taste you. To him, you do not exist, for you do not belong here. Yet.’

The silky voice drifted into my ears as subtly as if it had come from within my own mind, gently caressing my consciousness, and causing an shiver of pure pleasure to run down my spine, and rather than cutting through the music, it flowed with it in perfectly-modulated harmony. I turned slowly towards the source of this hypnotic voice, and, as I did so, I caught a whiff of a strange, yet divine perfume, which caused my vision to swim, and my heart to leap. More sensuous than the scent of roses of a summer’s morn, and as clear to the nose as the sweet odour of freshly-blooming honeysuckle, it was like nothing that I had smelt before, or have done since, perfect in everyway. And this perfection of voice and perfume was echoed in the physical form of the being that confronted me. Androgynous he was, neither male nor female, yet more beautiful than both. His slender and elegant form was covered only by a tunic of plain blue silk, from which his long, clean limbs stretched out, and a enigmatic half-smile was upon his face, from which looked out a pair of clear blue eyes, which glowed brightly in the half-light of the forest, promising secret knowledge and unthinkable joys. His skin was pale, yet his complexion was utterly flawless, and almost glowed with health and vitality, and at the sight of him, my knees grew weak, and my eyes begged me to fall upon my knees and worship him. And I knew, that were this not a dream, were this a reality in which I might have seen his full glory, then I would not have been able to stop myself from bowing my head, and crying out the praises of Slaanesh, the Dark Prince of Chaos, for all eternity.

‘Come, walk with me a while.’

And, not trusting myself to speak, I followed him in silence, as he led me deeper into the forest. We passed through many deep stretches of forest, and entered countless open glades and clearings. As with my journey in the realm of disease, I cannot say for how long we walked, or how far, but never did my legs tire, or my heart’s beat quicken with overexertion. Rather, a gentle coat of warmth blanketed my skin, and an unnatural vigour rushed constantly through my limbs. In one small glade, the floor of which was dappled with light, as the sun’s rays just barely penetrated the leafy cover, I remember gasping in horror at the sight of a dozen men raping a young girl, who screamed in agony as they had their way with her. In another, I stood silently, my eyes wide, as I watched a great mass of unclad women flogging themselves and each other, crying out in unholy ecstasy as they did so. I saw many such scenes in that long walk through the forest. There were, too, innumerable men and women, elves and dwarves, enjoying simpler pleasures. From smoking a pipe, to dancing through the trees with delightfully carefree abandon, but they are not the scenes that haunt my mind. They are not the scenes that cause me to lie awake at night, in the knowledge of what visions my dreams will bring. But throughout, despite all that I said and did, my guide remained silent.

Eventually, we left the copses and groves of the great forest behind, and, having climbed up to the peak of a high mountain that towered up through the soft, fluffy clouds, he led me into a small circular temple of pure white marble, its columns cunningly engraved with countless scenes of debauchery and excess, and languidly seated himself among the many soft velvet cushions which lay upon a great obsidian throne in the centre, before a clap of his hands brought a score of scantily clad young beings, both man and woman, human and elf, scurrying into the temple, bearing trays of exotic fruits and white-feathered fans. He bade me to recline upon the cushions at his feet, and, entranced by his beauty, I did so, relaxing into their soft embrace. Then, as I lay there, he began to speak, but he did not look at me as he spoke, and instead addressed the incense-filled air, for four golden braziers sat just inside the circle of columns, from which the light pink smoke curled upward to hang in a thin cloud above our heads.

‘You are mine, you know, as are all mortal beings. For all mortals seek pleasure of some form, and it drives their every action, permeating their lives as it dominates their motivations. Yes, all are slaves to pleasure, and thus to me.’

He glanced down toward my recumbent form, noting the faint wisp of doubt that hung in my eyes, since in his seductive presence, that was all the resistance I could muster, for how could any mere mortal have the temerity to disagree with perfection? And his mouth opened to let fall a silvery stream of musical laughter, his perfect white teeth shining through the perfumed air which separated me from his graceful form,

‘Yes, from glorious ecstasy to tortuous pain, and from the deepest hatred to the most sublime of loves, all are merely different aspects of the one supreme feeling that is pleasure. But of all the many pleasures in this world, one stands tall above all others. From it, there is no escape. There are those who abstain from ecstasy, and others from pain, some deny themselves access to their primal emotions, love and hate, fear and the searing joy that comes from power, but from one emotion there is no escape. You might call it pride, or satisfaction, or self-approval. It is that feeling that comes from success, from the fulfilment of an aim. It is pleasure. There is no true altruism, there is no goal beyond pleasure, no being can truly sublimate its own selfish desires to a higher goal without feeling some satisfaction in doing so, and in feeling that satisfaction, they fail. Yes, all beings do seek pleasure, and in doing so, they all, whether they be man or elf, dwarf or ogre, belong to me alone.’

But as he spoke, a rising bubble of indignation began to grow with me, boiling up from the depths of my spirit, rebelling against the haze of love and adoration which lay over my consciousness. How could he, lovely though he be, compare me, an upright man, to the vile creatures of the valley, to the harlots and rapists, flagellants and shameless pursuers of sensation, and to elves and dwarves and ogres and other such strange and exotic races? And then, the bubble burst, and a single syllable escaped my lips, quiet and timid, but sounding rough and harsh against his music.

‘No!’

And with that single short syllable, the spell broke, and my mind was free and clear once more.

Grom
01-06-2005, 19:33
‘No. It is true that I take pleasure from my actions, when they are good, and I take pleasure too from some physical sensations, though not from others, but I do not belong to you. I will even admit that I aim for pleasure in many things. But pleasure is never the greatest motive for my actions, nor even a major one. I am influenced by pleasure, but it has never ruled me, nor shall I ever allow it to, and so you shall never have me.’

And as I spoke, both Slaanesh, and the temple, and the entire world, began fade away, becoming pale and translucent, and both the music and the aromas and feel of the cushions upon my body, became weak and insubstantial, until only my voice remained, echoing in the void.

I hung in the emptiness. There was no touch, no sound, no sight. There was no taste, and there was no smell. There was no light, and there was no darkness. There was only my own sense of self, a disembodied consciousness, weak and alone.

Then, I felt my eyes open, and a flash of colour, bright and rich, a luminescent purple that changed at once to green, and then to orange, and to a pure clear silver, and on, through all the colours of creation, at first blinding in intensity, and then pale and wan so that I had to strain to perceive it, flew across my eyes. And the ever-changing hues spread, so that my essence floated in a sea of inconstant colour. And sound returned too, whispers and wails, screeches and smooth sonorous notes, all blending together into one awesome cacophony, which rose and sank like a bird on the high air-currents of the endless sea, swooping from great crescendos to tiny whimpers in an instant.

And as I drifted in this ocean of change, my other senses returned to me. Smell, and touch and taste. In one moment, I was floating in a limpid pool of calm water, and in the next, harsh gravel scraped my skin, tearing the flesh from bone, before being replaced by searing heat or burning cold. And then, a sweet breeze, fresh and clear like the mountain air could caress my battered form, before changing to hard stone, and thus the sequence continued, never repeating or ceasing. And the smells changed too. Rancid stench and floral perfume, and all the gamut of odours that lie between, flashed through my nostrils, my brain barely able to process what was occurring. I opened my mouth in shock and bewilderment, and the raw substance of chaos flowed between my lips. Sweet and salty, bitter and sour, all of these it was, and yet none.

And this endless change of sound and hue, intensity and volume, smell and taste and touch, was not patterned or ordered in any way. The whole world around me seemed to have a life and will of its own, unfettered by any laws of nature or of man. When the substance, if I can even call it that, for sometimes it was something, and sometimes nothing, which surrounded me on all sides decided to move and flow, or to blow and swirl, there was no clear up or down. Yet it was not always the gravity-less freedom of space. Rather, the laws which bound the world switched and swapped and changed even as the substance around me did. Thus it was that this world was not even bound by the laws of lawlessness. Instead, it acted whimsically, shifting and changing according to the casual impulses of some infinitely creative mind.

Whether I floated there for a moment or for an age, I cannot tell, for time was as fluid and as unfettered by law as everything else in that place, but eventually, I became aware of another presence beside my own, permeating the raw stuff of chaos which surrounded me. My eyes, ears, nose, skin and tongue could not perceive it, nor could they comprehend it. Rather, I sensed it with the very core of my being, and it was immense beyond understanding, a mind large enough to encompass the entirety of creation. Older than time, and yet capable of minutely intricate subtleties, I quailed before it.

Then, it opened its mind to mine, and I shared in its thoughts, its dreams, and its ancient knowledge, and I saw. I saw that fundamental truth which underlies all of creation, all that has been, all that is, and all that will be. That all change comes from intelligence, and that all intelligence is chaos. And the presence spoke, its disembodied voice echoing in the corridors of my mind.

Without change, there is no creation, without chaos, there is no life, for order is death and an eternal, silent chill.

And I replied to it, my thoughts passing from my soul, to the countless eyes and ears of Tzeentch, he who directs the fate of the universe;

But chaos unalloyed cannot be savoured, for it is but a passing dream, with no solidity, stability, lasting power. How can the existence of a life matter if it lasts for but the tiniest fragment of time?

But your mind is chaos, pure and untempered. The world in which you live, though created and oft altered by chaos, is yet ruled by law. When you look out of a window in the height of the day, you know that the sun will have risen above, and that the earth will still lie underfoot. When clouds gather, rain will fall. When a sword strikes, blood will spill. These are certainties, unchanging, ordered, lawful. But what of the mysteries of the mind? What law drives your thoughts? What order constrains your soul? There is none. Your body is of law, yet your spirit? That is sweet unfettered chaos, the innermost core of intelligence. And that chaos must bring change into its ordered world. Whether for a millennia, or for a passing second, it matters not. The life of a man is but an instant to the universe, and the life of a gadfly is but a moment in the life of a man. Significance cannot be measured by time, only by change.

For you, for the universe, that may be so. But I cannot judge purely by absolutes. I am a man, and is by the values of humanity that I must stand. My decisions may be born of chaos, but I am more than that. For there is one part of my mind that does not change with the seasons – my sense of self, and that sense of self is inextricably bound to my ordered bodily form, and the ordered world in which it exists.

Yet there is much of that world which can be changed. Even on your petty mortal scale, you know that a system which does not change and grow can only sink into decadence, cold and lifeless.

A wall of bricks takes many men many hours to build, with their hands and arms straining, yet a strong man with a firm arm and solid hammer can destroy that same wall in minutes, leaving it as useless rubble. Change can destroy as easily as it can create. Nay, more easily, and there will always be destroyers among men. This destruction must be fought. Men must stand together to rebuild what has been destroyed, and look to safeguard the order of what already is, before they can look toward what could be, lest entropy rule.

The more of the old is allowed to survive, the less of that which could be, shall be.

Yet not all sensations should be felt, not all sights should be seen. To you, all that could be, is good. Or rather, to you, there is no good, nor evil, but I am a man.

And with this final affirmation of my own humanity, that place, whatever it was, lost its grip upon my dreams, and I rose, as if buoyed up by a tide of pure white light, toward the waiting world of the living, where the cold draft stung my naked feet, and the cuckoos sang the first songs of the new dawn.



- Excerpt from the writings of the mad hermit Gustav of Jurnberg, used as evidence in his trial for witchcraft and heresy against the cult of Sigmar, for which heinous sins he was burned at the stake until he was dead.

anarchistica
01-06-2005, 23:50
Ok, i only have one question. Slaanesh, you say he's neither man nor woman, and andogynous, but you refer to him/her as him. So he is male? And seems to be neither man nor woman?

Aside from that, it's perfect, graphic, fluid and intelligent. You're the first to recieve...the Golden Thumb (which might look like slightly orangish, just ignore that ;)).

Hideous Loon
02-06-2005, 14:08
anarchistica: Because it's hard to define a sentient being using the pronoun 'it'.

I loved your long short story (that's not, AFAIK, a contradiction in terms). However, I was disturbed by your...errm, vivid description of Father Nurgle. Shall I call the asylum for you? And I didn't quite understand the 'image' the heretic had of Tzeentch. My favourite part has to be the Khornate part, since, every time I get angry with someone, Khorne tugs at my soul, begging me to give it to Him.

Overall, a truly awesome piece of fiction. Keep it up!

Frecus
02-06-2005, 15:16
WOW! :eek:

To be honest, I was blown away by this! This is great!

Then I thought I could write...

*Cries in a corner*

Frecus
The glade wanderer
Madwarrior

Azroth
03-06-2005, 08:35
Definitely the best short story I've read in a LONG time. It is, as anarchistica said, graphic, fluid, and intelligent. You write in such a way that I just couldn't stop myself reading, and that's basically, for me at least, the ultimate compliment. If I were asked to rate this, I'd say 10/10 without a moments hesitation. Keep up the good work mate. Cheers.

Az

Twisted Ferret
03-06-2005, 17:09
Very good story, a nice bit of philosophy as well. You have some run-on sentences with a bit too many commas, but I have a tendency to do the same thing. ;) Overall, I loved it; 9/10.

Bmaxwell
03-06-2005, 20:37
loved it very niclely done

chaospig
05-06-2005, 04:09
i liked it, it was really good

marineowar
05-06-2005, 12:30
Can you get more than 5 stars here? Whatever the highest rating is double it and we might be getting close to your ability. Excellent work

marineowar

anarchistica
05-06-2005, 16:56
Can you get more than 5 stars here? Whatever the highest rating is double it and we might be getting close to your ability. Excellent work
Well, Tolkien would be a 6, but nothing can top that. :p

How many of you found this story through my sig btw? Just wondering.

Oh, and don't forget to use "rate thread" to rate this story.

Great Harlequin
10-06-2005, 19:49
Sensational. Truly amazing. You should if you haven't already consider writing as a career.

Kelroth
11-06-2005, 21:28
Grom, I already told you what I thought of it (as well as proofreading a little of it), but once again, great work, mate. I'll put some of my own tawdry crap up sometime so as to make your efforts look yet more superior. :)

Frodo34x
24-06-2005, 22:36
How many of you found this story through my sig btw? Just wondering.

I'm one.

That is a damn good story. Better than alot of Black Library stories to say the least.

Lord-Warlock
30-06-2005, 19:41
Utterly brilliant!

But (always a but, there is) Nurgle shows him his tombstone, yet he was eventually burnt at the stake? It take it the tombstone was symbolic, but it still struck me as strange...

XeoX
01-07-2005, 20:56
A very, very good story. Philosophical, vivid with detail...
I love it.

Delicious Soy
11-07-2005, 03:53
I really enjoyed this, but I can't help but feel that the writer got off lightly, it seems very easy for him to dismiss the gods.

Wez
11-07-2005, 17:26
Brilliant

10/10

-Wez