Since I seem to be in charge of this competition while Llandy is absent (nobody else seems to want to do it (if there are any enthusiasts, please tell me right away)), here're the entries for this round. It got postponed quite a bit, and stuff. But whatever. Here they are.
Ruthven: (791 words)
TheFlyingFishy: (829 words)
BenKenobi: (1000 words)
Let the voting begin!
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And on a side note, please give this a read, if you've got a few minutes. It is my own work on the topic, but as I won last round, I do not participate in the competition this time. That's why I decided to experiment a bit and I came up with this. Please, whilst posting feedback, drop your impressions about this one as well. It's really going to help me out for the future.
Ruthven: (791 words)
It's a cool kind of breeze that slithers its way down, past the red-hot lights and torn-up posters. Double door, oak, older than the building, might have been worth something if it hadn't been paint-chip black and scratched like it had just been attacked by a demon trying to break out and snake up and out of a heated situation... And if you chance to look up and break the bouncer's beady gaze your eyes might see a beautiful woman, tattooed, naked, feet starting to curl and fall, with a permanent-marker-moustache haphazardly drawn on by someone not quite tall enough to make hitler's 'stache really look real on the black-haired poster. But if you'll please stop gawking and give the gruff looking, 250-pounds-of-muscle-but-otherwise-looks-a-lot-like-Liam-Neeson doorman your ticket he'll deign to indicate with his eyes that you can go on inside, out of the red hues and into the black and blues that ignite the scenery.
It's not what you'd expect. There isn't any music booming some looping uncha-uncha-uncha and you don't see any sly lizards or screaming birds of prey looking for an easy meal. There's just some guy standing there, and three other older alligators sitting in the corner conversing through their deck of cards but otherwise not making a sound.
"The guy standing there" is a bit taller than you and definitely older. You want to say he looks very Russian but honestly you know he doesn't and you're at least pretty sure he isn't. His boots are dusty, wrinkled leather, his pants loose and black (or are they dark grey?) and his jacket is an old brown corduroy so worn down you aren't really sure it's actually corduroy. His attire bores you a little and you feel sad that you just spent so much time remarking on it, and instead wonder if he feels odd walking underneath the poster of the naked girl that blesses the ceiling on the other side of the old oak door...
Anyways he just asked you a question but you spent so much time staring at his jacket that you didn't notice. Like an idiot you have to step forward and ask him to repeat himself but instead of managing a full step your nervous feet just kind of spasm and you somehow manage to trip over nothing having never so much as lifted your feet off the ground.
"What?" you manage to say, realizing somewhere between the "Wh" and "A" sound that your question was asked in a bit of a rude way, and hope that he doesn't think you're just some nervous idiot off the street who can't keep his own thoughts in order and is also unaccountably impolite. You're really smart, actually, so why does his stare make you feel so dumb?
"Have you completed your tasks?" He asks condescendingly, while somehow managing to make his voice sound even-toned and impartial.
"Y-yeas. Yeh. Yes." Nice!
"Good. I trust you know what happens now?"
The mention of money brings your wits back like children rushing towards a mall Santa.
"Absolutely, sir. I'm to be paid a thousand dollars per family." It had been hard to hear the littler ones screaming, but as far as you know the little brats deserved it and besides, that one girl with the protruding eyeballs and size-too-small second-hand night-gown had bit your finger, and what would you have done if she had bitten your wedding ring right off and eaten it?
"...Ah" he seemed to see fit to answer. No handshakes and thank-yous, no more jobs, no suitcases of money ready at hand... He must have the money in another room, under guard. He's not going to try to rip you off, that's for sure. The dumb Neeson-hulk at the door hadn't even checked you for weapons, and you would have your gun out and barrel blazing before this old fool could even think to reach for his, if he has one at all.
"I'll take my money and be going." Is all you'll say to him. When you dropped your wits you forgot about your gun, but remembering it st--
You're lying on your back staring at the ceiling thinking How did I get down here? when you remember the guy and those reptiles with the cards and red-hot Liam Neeson with his 250 night gowns of money per family and something about a gun and that reminds you that while you were daydreaming "The guy standing there" pulled out a gun and shot you twice and your fingers didn't even... Didn't, couldn't, react...
The ceiling is black but then again so is the whole room. You think to yourself stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstu- and then you die. On the floor. In the dark. And it's kinda chilly, too.
It's not what you'd expect. There isn't any music booming some looping uncha-uncha-uncha and you don't see any sly lizards or screaming birds of prey looking for an easy meal. There's just some guy standing there, and three other older alligators sitting in the corner conversing through their deck of cards but otherwise not making a sound.
"The guy standing there" is a bit taller than you and definitely older. You want to say he looks very Russian but honestly you know he doesn't and you're at least pretty sure he isn't. His boots are dusty, wrinkled leather, his pants loose and black (or are they dark grey?) and his jacket is an old brown corduroy so worn down you aren't really sure it's actually corduroy. His attire bores you a little and you feel sad that you just spent so much time remarking on it, and instead wonder if he feels odd walking underneath the poster of the naked girl that blesses the ceiling on the other side of the old oak door...
Anyways he just asked you a question but you spent so much time staring at his jacket that you didn't notice. Like an idiot you have to step forward and ask him to repeat himself but instead of managing a full step your nervous feet just kind of spasm and you somehow manage to trip over nothing having never so much as lifted your feet off the ground.
"What?" you manage to say, realizing somewhere between the "Wh" and "A" sound that your question was asked in a bit of a rude way, and hope that he doesn't think you're just some nervous idiot off the street who can't keep his own thoughts in order and is also unaccountably impolite. You're really smart, actually, so why does his stare make you feel so dumb?
"Have you completed your tasks?" He asks condescendingly, while somehow managing to make his voice sound even-toned and impartial.
"Y-yeas. Yeh. Yes." Nice!
"Good. I trust you know what happens now?"
The mention of money brings your wits back like children rushing towards a mall Santa.
"Absolutely, sir. I'm to be paid a thousand dollars per family." It had been hard to hear the littler ones screaming, but as far as you know the little brats deserved it and besides, that one girl with the protruding eyeballs and size-too-small second-hand night-gown had bit your finger, and what would you have done if she had bitten your wedding ring right off and eaten it?
"...Ah" he seemed to see fit to answer. No handshakes and thank-yous, no more jobs, no suitcases of money ready at hand... He must have the money in another room, under guard. He's not going to try to rip you off, that's for sure. The dumb Neeson-hulk at the door hadn't even checked you for weapons, and you would have your gun out and barrel blazing before this old fool could even think to reach for his, if he has one at all.
"I'll take my money and be going." Is all you'll say to him. When you dropped your wits you forgot about your gun, but remembering it st--
You're lying on your back staring at the ceiling thinking How did I get down here? when you remember the guy and those reptiles with the cards and red-hot Liam Neeson with his 250 night gowns of money per family and something about a gun and that reminds you that while you were daydreaming "The guy standing there" pulled out a gun and shot you twice and your fingers didn't even... Didn't, couldn't, react...
The ceiling is black but then again so is the whole room. You think to yourself stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstu- and then you die. On the floor. In the dark. And it's kinda chilly, too.
TheFlyingFishy: (829 words)
Abraham had never smoked before the war. He was deathly afraid of all the risks that came with it. Now, however he savored every puff he could get from a cigarette. After all, what’s the point of having pretty teeth and working lungs when you know you’ll be dead soon anyway? Abraham began to think about how it had all come to this, and sighed deeply, taking in the last few precious traces of smoke.
It was an otherwise average day when the world ended. Abraham had awoken and, as always, fixed a hearty breakfast consisting of sausage, eggs, and biscuits for himself and his son, Michael. It had happened so suddenly, one moment the radio blearing that missiles had been fired, and the next Abraham rushing his son into the emergency hatch in the backyard shed, which had been abandoned for years. Abraham liked to go there anyway, with Michael, to observe the growth of the garden, even though he was expressly told to remain on the main grounds at all times, “for his own safety.” After that there was nothing but the dull pounding sound of them landing and exploding through the bunker walls. Now, 15 years later the earth was dead, covered in a lethal fog that choked the life out of anything within it. The exact cause of the fog was unknown, but Abraham had come to believe it to be the vengeful spirits of those who didn’t make it into a shelter, seeking to punish him for surviving when they hadn’t.
Michael, too, was dead now. He‘d decided to just leave the bunker and become engulfed in the fog one day. Nowadays Abraham’s only solace was the knowledge that he would soon be with his son once more. The bunker was on its last few days of food supplies. It had run out of medical supplies over 3 years ago. The air filters were failing.
Abraham had determined to spend the last few days of his life relaxing, as he had spent the past 15 years stressing over everything. He broke out the cartons of cigarettes that were tucked deep within the cabinets, behind the few cans of food that remained and began smoking them, at a rate of 3 packs a day. It was hard at first, and he didn’t see how people had tolerated the things, but he quickly grew to indulge in the taste and the aroma, and the whole experience in general. He greedily drank the last of the liquor supplies, which he had been saving for the cold nights when visions of his wife and Michael would creep in to torment him. He wrote poetry, sank, tapped out little beats on the wall, and invented new ways that a single person could play the various board games in the bunker.
Suddenly, as if someone had relit a fire within him, he desperately wanted to live again. With each poem that he wrote, each song that he sung, and with every time he bested himself in one of his new games, Abraham began to see the joy in just being alive once again. He thusly began thinking of ways to preserve his life, even for a few more seconds. He cut back on his rations, until he ate hardly a bean a day, and began reciting encouraging messages to himself constantly. He even prayed some, an art which he had long since forgotten. Why had the military built his bunker to be so small?
Despite all of this, however, the time did come, albeit several months later than it would have otherwise, when Abraham finally ran completely out of supplies. For three days he lay in anguish, reciting from the massive arsenal of poetry that he had written in the past months, some joyous, some utterly defeatist. On the 4th day of his ordeal he knew that his time had come. He, with much effort, pulled himself over to his favorite spot on the wall. This spot always seemed so magical compared to the others. It had a certain reverberating effect when he tapped his music on it. Almost as if it were… hollow.
The thought took Abraham for a moment. Hollow. Hollow. This far underground, there was surely nothing but dirt and rock surrounding the bunker. Abraham began pounding with all of his strength. He beat the wall until his hands bled and he shook with frustration. Suddenly, he heard something on the other side and quickly stopped.
“You go first.”
“No, you go first.”
“Damn. Best two out of three?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Fine, but when we get back to the main hall I get dibs on the TV tonight.”
Abraham pushed himself away from and stared at the wall in amazement. Suddenly it opened and a flashlight peered into the room, followed by a head that Abraham had known well, many years ago.
“Mr. President,” his former Vice President asked, “what are you doing in the service tunnels?”
It was an otherwise average day when the world ended. Abraham had awoken and, as always, fixed a hearty breakfast consisting of sausage, eggs, and biscuits for himself and his son, Michael. It had happened so suddenly, one moment the radio blearing that missiles had been fired, and the next Abraham rushing his son into the emergency hatch in the backyard shed, which had been abandoned for years. Abraham liked to go there anyway, with Michael, to observe the growth of the garden, even though he was expressly told to remain on the main grounds at all times, “for his own safety.” After that there was nothing but the dull pounding sound of them landing and exploding through the bunker walls. Now, 15 years later the earth was dead, covered in a lethal fog that choked the life out of anything within it. The exact cause of the fog was unknown, but Abraham had come to believe it to be the vengeful spirits of those who didn’t make it into a shelter, seeking to punish him for surviving when they hadn’t.
Michael, too, was dead now. He‘d decided to just leave the bunker and become engulfed in the fog one day. Nowadays Abraham’s only solace was the knowledge that he would soon be with his son once more. The bunker was on its last few days of food supplies. It had run out of medical supplies over 3 years ago. The air filters were failing.
Abraham had determined to spend the last few days of his life relaxing, as he had spent the past 15 years stressing over everything. He broke out the cartons of cigarettes that were tucked deep within the cabinets, behind the few cans of food that remained and began smoking them, at a rate of 3 packs a day. It was hard at first, and he didn’t see how people had tolerated the things, but he quickly grew to indulge in the taste and the aroma, and the whole experience in general. He greedily drank the last of the liquor supplies, which he had been saving for the cold nights when visions of his wife and Michael would creep in to torment him. He wrote poetry, sank, tapped out little beats on the wall, and invented new ways that a single person could play the various board games in the bunker.
Suddenly, as if someone had relit a fire within him, he desperately wanted to live again. With each poem that he wrote, each song that he sung, and with every time he bested himself in one of his new games, Abraham began to see the joy in just being alive once again. He thusly began thinking of ways to preserve his life, even for a few more seconds. He cut back on his rations, until he ate hardly a bean a day, and began reciting encouraging messages to himself constantly. He even prayed some, an art which he had long since forgotten. Why had the military built his bunker to be so small?
Despite all of this, however, the time did come, albeit several months later than it would have otherwise, when Abraham finally ran completely out of supplies. For three days he lay in anguish, reciting from the massive arsenal of poetry that he had written in the past months, some joyous, some utterly defeatist. On the 4th day of his ordeal he knew that his time had come. He, with much effort, pulled himself over to his favorite spot on the wall. This spot always seemed so magical compared to the others. It had a certain reverberating effect when he tapped his music on it. Almost as if it were… hollow.
The thought took Abraham for a moment. Hollow. Hollow. This far underground, there was surely nothing but dirt and rock surrounding the bunker. Abraham began pounding with all of his strength. He beat the wall until his hands bled and he shook with frustration. Suddenly, he heard something on the other side and quickly stopped.
“You go first.”
“No, you go first.”
“Damn. Best two out of three?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Fine, but when we get back to the main hall I get dibs on the TV tonight.”
Abraham pushed himself away from and stared at the wall in amazement. Suddenly it opened and a flashlight peered into the room, followed by a head that Abraham had known well, many years ago.
“Mr. President,” his former Vice President asked, “what are you doing in the service tunnels?”
BenKenobi: (1000 words)
It was very early in the morning when the princess had heard the drums for the first time; the early mist was still visible above the wet forests and overall it would have been pleasantly placid breakfast, were there not a sound of marching white-coats. Princess rushed to the stables, jumped on Ärger – her dapple-grey Holsteiner - and rode towards the marching battalion. Princess Adelheid fancied military and everything connected to soldiering much more than the things usually attributed to her status or gender, unfortunately.
“Be welcome, men of the Fifth!” she cried at and waved at the long column of Austrian soldiers; who responded by hearty cheers and started to raise their shakos on bayonets high into the air to greet their beloved princess.
Soldiers watched their Heidi circle around the whole column, until she finished the show by a great leap over the regimental six-pounder. She casted a disgusted look at a group of tired and apathetic blue-coat prisoners and rode right next to the colonel at the head of the column.
“How was the battle, Oberst?” shouted the princess.
“Bloody. As always, your highness,” laughed the colonel and pointed at his bandaged arm, giving Adelheid time to look at a wound, and then said with pride: “guard cuirassier!”
Princess was then interrogating the Oberst for a good hour; she wanted to know how accurate were the guns, when exactly had the center of the Fransozen collapsed, how much of the wounded died in the feldlazaretts, how accurate were the Jägers or how the Chevaulegers shattered the surprised Hussars. She listened eagerly to a tale of a brave cannoneer or how the French line, surprised by a sudden appearance of the uhlans, formed a carré, only to be routed and decimated by a furious gunfire few moments later.
“Any officers, Herr Oberst?”
“Your highness, but your father…”
“I have most certainly not come here to ask for your opinion,” said Adelheid while showering the colonel with a gaze full of anger and coldness. “Any officers?”
“Only these two, your highness,” answered the colonel and pointed at a pair of men in high bicornes walking with other French prisoners; towards whom Adelheid steered her horse.
“You two!” started the princess in impeccable French. “You are given a chance to win back your freedom! What do you say?”
“Oh, just what one needs! Lunatic autrichien whore,” uttered the Sous-lieutenant, holding a pipe in his right hand, and was immediately rewarded by a swift lash of Adelheid’s whip to a face.
“How unthinkable!” cried Adelheid, while watching the man clean blood from his face. “Perhaps your friend is more of a soldier and less of a coward.”
“Perhaps we should at least listen to the lady’s offer,” remarked the other officer, obviously unaware of countless Austrian fusiliers watching them and secretly smiling.
“Great!” said Adelheid, but in her voice was no trace of any relief or sympathy; only satisfaction and a cold joy over something that was yet to come. “A duel. Victory will grant you freedom, defeat will bring you death or shame; depends on your luck, really.”
“A duel?”
“I believe I have already said so quite clearly,” uttered Adelheid from the saddle.
“Very well,” rejoined the Frenchman. “They say Austrian officers are pretty terrible shots anyway.”
“Rapiers,” corrected him Adelheid.
“Magnificent. When and who?”
“Now. Me.”
“The lady must be joking,” smiled the French officer, but went serious again once Adelheid pulled two rapiers out of her saddle-bag and handed one of them to him.
“En garde!”
“Prêt,” said calmly the Frenchman, pointing the blade at Adelheid’s chest.
The Frenchman started to explore her technique. Few fake attacks here and there, always followed by princess’s rather slow ripostes, maintaining the conversation of the blades. There was something odd about a way she was holding the weapon – granted, he never really fought a woman, but her style had forced him to be very careful. As when one is fencing with an opponent that is quite weaker than the fencer himself and the veteran just does not know what to expect.
The princess was somehow bored by the duel so far. Nearly every French officer she had fought was usually going for decisive attacks; exploiting the strength advantage he was holding; usually unaware of Adelheid’s magnificent legwork that had kept her out of the harm’s way so far. Yes, she was quite confident in her abilities, if that isn’t an understatement. She liked the fencing from the very young age and started to love it when she found out that the swordsmanship of the French soldiers was infinitely inferior to hers. This one was just a coward and she was annoyed by having to constantly provoke him by her slow counterattacks.
The French officer, having no better plan, faked the attack once more. The princess responded with her usually weak riposte, but the frog hadn’t disengaged. Instead, his counter-riposte forced the princess to back a few yards, but in the end was pointless as she had just too fast legs to be caught like this. Her counterattack was quick and nearly flawless; were she not surprised by his sudden remise. The princess fell into the grass with the blood coming out of her hip.
The French prisoners burst into loud cheering, while the officer proceeded to Adelheid; who was lying in the grass and breathing heavily. Having not looked into her eyes, where shame was mixing with anger and tears, he offered the princess his left hand to help her rise and escort her back to the column. It was no surprise to him when Adelheid had raised her still-armed hand against him but the attack was parried rather easily, really. Having no desire to answer the treachery with conduct, the officer kicked the princess’s hip, stepped on her arm and took away her rapier.
“You should not play at war. Not willingly, mon ami,” he uttered to the shaking and crying creature.
The princess was starting to like him.
“Be welcome, men of the Fifth!” she cried at and waved at the long column of Austrian soldiers; who responded by hearty cheers and started to raise their shakos on bayonets high into the air to greet their beloved princess.
Soldiers watched their Heidi circle around the whole column, until she finished the show by a great leap over the regimental six-pounder. She casted a disgusted look at a group of tired and apathetic blue-coat prisoners and rode right next to the colonel at the head of the column.
“How was the battle, Oberst?” shouted the princess.
“Bloody. As always, your highness,” laughed the colonel and pointed at his bandaged arm, giving Adelheid time to look at a wound, and then said with pride: “guard cuirassier!”
Princess was then interrogating the Oberst for a good hour; she wanted to know how accurate were the guns, when exactly had the center of the Fransozen collapsed, how much of the wounded died in the feldlazaretts, how accurate were the Jägers or how the Chevaulegers shattered the surprised Hussars. She listened eagerly to a tale of a brave cannoneer or how the French line, surprised by a sudden appearance of the uhlans, formed a carré, only to be routed and decimated by a furious gunfire few moments later.
“Any officers, Herr Oberst?”
“Your highness, but your father…”
“I have most certainly not come here to ask for your opinion,” said Adelheid while showering the colonel with a gaze full of anger and coldness. “Any officers?”
“Only these two, your highness,” answered the colonel and pointed at a pair of men in high bicornes walking with other French prisoners; towards whom Adelheid steered her horse.
“You two!” started the princess in impeccable French. “You are given a chance to win back your freedom! What do you say?”
“Oh, just what one needs! Lunatic autrichien whore,” uttered the Sous-lieutenant, holding a pipe in his right hand, and was immediately rewarded by a swift lash of Adelheid’s whip to a face.
“How unthinkable!” cried Adelheid, while watching the man clean blood from his face. “Perhaps your friend is more of a soldier and less of a coward.”
“Perhaps we should at least listen to the lady’s offer,” remarked the other officer, obviously unaware of countless Austrian fusiliers watching them and secretly smiling.
“Great!” said Adelheid, but in her voice was no trace of any relief or sympathy; only satisfaction and a cold joy over something that was yet to come. “A duel. Victory will grant you freedom, defeat will bring you death or shame; depends on your luck, really.”
“A duel?”
“I believe I have already said so quite clearly,” uttered Adelheid from the saddle.
“Very well,” rejoined the Frenchman. “They say Austrian officers are pretty terrible shots anyway.”
“Rapiers,” corrected him Adelheid.
“Magnificent. When and who?”
“Now. Me.”
“The lady must be joking,” smiled the French officer, but went serious again once Adelheid pulled two rapiers out of her saddle-bag and handed one of them to him.
“En garde!”
“Prêt,” said calmly the Frenchman, pointing the blade at Adelheid’s chest.
The Frenchman started to explore her technique. Few fake attacks here and there, always followed by princess’s rather slow ripostes, maintaining the conversation of the blades. There was something odd about a way she was holding the weapon – granted, he never really fought a woman, but her style had forced him to be very careful. As when one is fencing with an opponent that is quite weaker than the fencer himself and the veteran just does not know what to expect.
The princess was somehow bored by the duel so far. Nearly every French officer she had fought was usually going for decisive attacks; exploiting the strength advantage he was holding; usually unaware of Adelheid’s magnificent legwork that had kept her out of the harm’s way so far. Yes, she was quite confident in her abilities, if that isn’t an understatement. She liked the fencing from the very young age and started to love it when she found out that the swordsmanship of the French soldiers was infinitely inferior to hers. This one was just a coward and she was annoyed by having to constantly provoke him by her slow counterattacks.
The French officer, having no better plan, faked the attack once more. The princess responded with her usually weak riposte, but the frog hadn’t disengaged. Instead, his counter-riposte forced the princess to back a few yards, but in the end was pointless as she had just too fast legs to be caught like this. Her counterattack was quick and nearly flawless; were she not surprised by his sudden remise. The princess fell into the grass with the blood coming out of her hip.
The French prisoners burst into loud cheering, while the officer proceeded to Adelheid; who was lying in the grass and breathing heavily. Having not looked into her eyes, where shame was mixing with anger and tears, he offered the princess his left hand to help her rise and escort her back to the column. It was no surprise to him when Adelheid had raised her still-armed hand against him but the attack was parried rather easily, really. Having no desire to answer the treachery with conduct, the officer kicked the princess’s hip, stepped on her arm and took away her rapier.
“You should not play at war. Not willingly, mon ami,” he uttered to the shaking and crying creature.
The princess was starting to like him.
Let the voting begin!
---------------------
And on a side note, please give this a read, if you've got a few minutes. It is my own work on the topic, but as I won last round, I do not participate in the competition this time. That's why I decided to experiment a bit and I came up with this. Please, whilst posting feedback, drop your impressions about this one as well. It's really going to help me out for the future.
Gaimhred Gaoth did not tend to hesitate; yet sometimes uneasy thoughts would plague his mind. He stopped looking out of the window and headed towards the throne room, thinking about everything he and his ancestors had created. The desert, the cities, the villages, the Marble Palace he was walking through right now – all of them parts of the Empire. The Empire that had been one of the strongest realms on Europa for over three hundred years.
And now, war was brewing.
It’s funny, he thought. He faced the same problems every day, but he didn’t really feel afraid all that often. Not that he felt afraid now; no, fear wasn’t what he was feeling.
The Empire could not lose the war. The plans were perfect, the soldiers – many and well-trained, and the enemies were few and divided. Look, if each and every other kingdom had united to stand against Sirath, he would be afraid. But they weren’t, so why was he anxious today? Nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Perhaps the long journey had exhausted him, he thought. A nice rest would do him good. But first he had work to do. Probably.
He stopped by another window to look at the bustling capital below. So many people, and all of them doing something. Working, being happy, being sad, getting acquainted, marrying, having kids, dying. Living a life. He could hear the sounds of the city – the distant grumble of a hundred thousand voices talking, the barking dogs, the occasional clacking wheels of a carriage, the waves crushing into the shore, and a plethora of unintelligible noises, all blended together and almost reduced to faint whispers.
Each and every one of these was the Empire, and the Empire was them.
But why did he feel uneasy?
The armies had dealt with half of the West, and the other half would soon fall, none of them could stop the Empire. The Steppe was not a problem, for they would be completely separate from everyone and would be crushed like wheat between two millstones. The East would resist, but it would be in vain, as the Tzardom’s armies weren’t as numerous as the Empire’s. Victory seemed inevitable, more or less.
But what comes next, he thought. What happens after we win?
He resumed his walk to the Throne Room, thinking.
Seems like an easy question, doesn’t it? “What will you do after you win?” The Empire would rule all and everything. But what was the purpose?
Was uniting the world a good idea? Of course it was!... Or was it, really?
He reassured himself that it was the right thing for the Empire. Otherwise their enemies could wait until the Empire is weak, and then strike with deadly consequences. Of course that unifying everything and putting all control in the hands of the Empire was a good idea.
Yet he didn’t feel better. Something was still occupying his mind.
He approached the gates, and the two guards opened them for him. The Throne Room was magnificent as always, and its high ceiling constituted greatness. Walls and floor made out of black and white marble, it did not look even remotely cozy, but rather raw and hard. It was empty.
He caught a thought lingering at the back of his mind. ”Great,” the thought said. ”You will conquer the world. Fine. But just think for a second. Can you stop yourself?”
The war plans were masterfully created and executed. The army was at peak conditioning, mustered and ready. Could anybody stop him?
No, he thought. Nothing they could do could stop the Empire’s approach. Not even a rebellion caused by his own people.
And that was a frightening thought.
With these thoughts in his head, the Sirathean Emperor sat upon his throne, his mind still restless.
He looked to the small pedestal beside it, where lay his oldest heirloom, a small blue pyramid made of stone. It was told that Eirig Gaoth, the First Emperor, had stolen that pyramid from the fortress of the wizard before tearing it down. The pyramid was the symbol of House Gaoth, and, in turn, the symbol of the Empire.
So old, and passed through the hands of all his ancestors, yet it looked brand-new. What had caused Eirig to select this as his sigil, he wondered. It did look kind of nice though. Stylish.
His first advisor entered the hall, carrying – as usual – a stack of paper documents.
Emperor Gaimhred let out a big sigh and prepared to indulge himself in bureaucracy. He remembered most of the things that were on schedule for doing.
But what he didn’t remember was ever doubting his politics or his own rightfulness.
And now, war was brewing.
It’s funny, he thought. He faced the same problems every day, but he didn’t really feel afraid all that often. Not that he felt afraid now; no, fear wasn’t what he was feeling.
The Empire could not lose the war. The plans were perfect, the soldiers – many and well-trained, and the enemies were few and divided. Look, if each and every other kingdom had united to stand against Sirath, he would be afraid. But they weren’t, so why was he anxious today? Nothing out of the ordinary was happening.
Perhaps the long journey had exhausted him, he thought. A nice rest would do him good. But first he had work to do. Probably.
He stopped by another window to look at the bustling capital below. So many people, and all of them doing something. Working, being happy, being sad, getting acquainted, marrying, having kids, dying. Living a life. He could hear the sounds of the city – the distant grumble of a hundred thousand voices talking, the barking dogs, the occasional clacking wheels of a carriage, the waves crushing into the shore, and a plethora of unintelligible noises, all blended together and almost reduced to faint whispers.
Each and every one of these was the Empire, and the Empire was them.
But why did he feel uneasy?
The armies had dealt with half of the West, and the other half would soon fall, none of them could stop the Empire. The Steppe was not a problem, for they would be completely separate from everyone and would be crushed like wheat between two millstones. The East would resist, but it would be in vain, as the Tzardom’s armies weren’t as numerous as the Empire’s. Victory seemed inevitable, more or less.
But what comes next, he thought. What happens after we win?
He resumed his walk to the Throne Room, thinking.
Seems like an easy question, doesn’t it? “What will you do after you win?” The Empire would rule all and everything. But what was the purpose?
Was uniting the world a good idea? Of course it was!... Or was it, really?
He reassured himself that it was the right thing for the Empire. Otherwise their enemies could wait until the Empire is weak, and then strike with deadly consequences. Of course that unifying everything and putting all control in the hands of the Empire was a good idea.
Yet he didn’t feel better. Something was still occupying his mind.
He approached the gates, and the two guards opened them for him. The Throne Room was magnificent as always, and its high ceiling constituted greatness. Walls and floor made out of black and white marble, it did not look even remotely cozy, but rather raw and hard. It was empty.
He caught a thought lingering at the back of his mind. ”Great,” the thought said. ”You will conquer the world. Fine. But just think for a second. Can you stop yourself?”
The war plans were masterfully created and executed. The army was at peak conditioning, mustered and ready. Could anybody stop him?
No, he thought. Nothing they could do could stop the Empire’s approach. Not even a rebellion caused by his own people.
And that was a frightening thought.
With these thoughts in his head, the Sirathean Emperor sat upon his throne, his mind still restless.
He looked to the small pedestal beside it, where lay his oldest heirloom, a small blue pyramid made of stone. It was told that Eirig Gaoth, the First Emperor, had stolen that pyramid from the fortress of the wizard before tearing it down. The pyramid was the symbol of House Gaoth, and, in turn, the symbol of the Empire.
So old, and passed through the hands of all his ancestors, yet it looked brand-new. What had caused Eirig to select this as his sigil, he wondered. It did look kind of nice though. Stylish.
His first advisor entered the hall, carrying – as usual – a stack of paper documents.
Emperor Gaimhred let out a big sigh and prepared to indulge himself in bureaucracy. He remembered most of the things that were on schedule for doing.
But what he didn’t remember was ever doubting his politics or his own rightfulness.
