Dirigible
Explorer
PRELUDE: The Ironfields. 100 years ago.
The bodies were piled up like sand.
Overhead, the sky wore a mourning shroud of ash, poison tears falling to consecrate the butcher's yard below. Twisted and broken, the walls of a stone tower remained barely standing on the peak of the mountain, a cripple's finger beckoning to the Gods.
Twisted metal contraptions lay broken alongside the remains of fallen Thralls. Bones, burned and charred, indistinguisable from the sprockets and cogs, acid etched and soot-besmirched intermingled with them. Further up the slopes, a bonejack shuffled on it's broken leg, barley functional after meeting the buisness end of an ogrun-thrall's warcleaver. Fire lanced from the sky, a falling comet, and the necromantic construct was momentarily silhouetted by the inferno, rering up in pain. Then it was no more.
The last two figures upright on the field of carnage of their making moved towards each other. Arcane energy rippled between them.
"My Samara. Dead by the gauntlet of your steamwork abomination." This voice, tired in spite of tirelessness, rasping like a tomb being violated. Bone fingers caressing an ebon wand.
"YOUR. EMPATHY. DOES. YOU. NO. CREDIT." This, harsh, metallic, precise, slow. Hollow as the echoes of a gunshot.
"Fool. Compassion drives me no further than a whip drives the kaelram. Look for my motives in spite, defiance and contempt. The Master was unwise to spurn my plans, and moreso to trust in you and your kind."
"YOU. ARE. BENEATH. MY. CONTEMPT. PITY. ONLY. ARE. YOU. FIT. FOR. YOUR. DAY. HAS. PAST. WE. SHALL. SHEPERD. AND. BE. SHEPERDED. INTO. GLORY."
The larger figure shifted slightly, producing a shard of crystal held within a metallic vise, holding it threateningly.
The smaller smiled fleshlessly, and raised it's wand.
"Shall we see whom is the swifter, pawn?"
One walked away.
The bodies were piled up like sand.
Overhead, the sky wore a mourning shroud of ash, poison tears falling to consecrate the butcher's yard below. Twisted and broken, the walls of a stone tower remained barely standing on the peak of the mountain, a cripple's finger beckoning to the Gods.
Twisted metal contraptions lay broken alongside the remains of fallen Thralls. Bones, burned and charred, indistinguisable from the sprockets and cogs, acid etched and soot-besmirched intermingled with them. Further up the slopes, a bonejack shuffled on it's broken leg, barley functional after meeting the buisness end of an ogrun-thrall's warcleaver. Fire lanced from the sky, a falling comet, and the necromantic construct was momentarily silhouetted by the inferno, rering up in pain. Then it was no more.
The last two figures upright on the field of carnage of their making moved towards each other. Arcane energy rippled between them.
"My Samara. Dead by the gauntlet of your steamwork abomination." This voice, tired in spite of tirelessness, rasping like a tomb being violated. Bone fingers caressing an ebon wand.
"YOUR. EMPATHY. DOES. YOU. NO. CREDIT." This, harsh, metallic, precise, slow. Hollow as the echoes of a gunshot.
"Fool. Compassion drives me no further than a whip drives the kaelram. Look for my motives in spite, defiance and contempt. The Master was unwise to spurn my plans, and moreso to trust in you and your kind."
"YOU. ARE. BENEATH. MY. CONTEMPT. PITY. ONLY. ARE. YOU. FIT. FOR. YOUR. DAY. HAS. PAST. WE. SHALL. SHEPERD. AND. BE. SHEPERDED. INTO. GLORY."
The larger figure shifted slightly, producing a shard of crystal held within a metallic vise, holding it threateningly.
The smaller smiled fleshlessly, and raised it's wand.
"Shall we see whom is the swifter, pawn?"
One walked away.
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