Re: Vendetta [S!2 Round 1 ~ Presidentialgon]
06-13-2012, 05:11 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Protoman.
Rayeln grins from ear to ear. The local S.W.A.T. team lines up on the other side of the empty plaza. Their guns are drawn, and their men are dripping with nervous sweat.
"Sir, we order you to drop your weapon and disperse your crowd. This is the only warning we will issue you. We have been authorized to fire."
Rayeln ignores the man. His voice shakes. No way to intimidate an enemy! Furthermore his stance does not convey to his troops any sort of power, any sort of force. Men respond to strength! A good leader must appear strong.
Rayeln sets his feet at shoulder width, raises his sword, and cries out in his loud, booming voice, "COMRADES! THE TIME IS NOW! LET US SLAUGHTER THE ARMY OF THESE CAPITALIST PIG WHORE DOG ARISTOCRATS! THE AGE OF RAYELNISM APPROACHES!"
He takes a slightly more dignified stance, slowly walking up and down his line.
"You who fight and die with me today will be marked in the annals of history as those who brought a great leader to power! Your names will be known by every schoolchild in this nation! Except probably only the first names, ink is very expensive. But no matter, your names!"
He proudly raises his sword into the air. "Let us not forget what we have fought for till today! Let us not forget the men we have lost! Let us not forget all that there is to ga----"
"Fire!"
A volley of gunfire rings out, automatic weapons blaring out as a good chunk of the crowd falls.
"CHARGE!"
The horde rushes forward. Most men are armed only with sticks, rocks, and random bits of debris found around the offices they rampaged through. The officers, on the other hand, are armed with automatic weapons.
Rayeln grins. This is the Rultzvenian way of war! Get as many men as you can and throw them all at the enemy, regardless of how poorly trained or badly equipped they are!
As the rush continues, the crowd grows thin. Morale wavers. Some fall on the ground, offering surrender. Others run away, hoping to evade the next volley of gunfire. Few remain by Rayeln's side in his charge towards the S.W.A.T. team.
Rayeln himself takes a bullet to the shoulder, the knees, the gut, and the neck. "No matter!" he says to himself. It's not like he uses those parts anyway!
The charge finally meets the line of S.W.A.T. Rayeln is like a rabid badger, swinging his axe left and right. Upon meeting his enemies, he kills 3 with one swipe of his laser cutlass. Indeed, their armor is no match for such a fine weapon.
A redness fills Rayeln's eyes. Suddenly these men are not officers of the law of these new foreign aristocrats. No! They are the noble pig scum who bore his father away from his fief, his land, his title! The blood of his drunk, noble father fills Rayeln's veins as he goes into a crazed berserker's frenzy, shouting, "FOR PAPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Rayeln blacks out, his mind incapable of comprehending the liters of blood squirting out from all around him. His body carries forward, slashing and cutting at every soft thing he sees.
When he awakens from this bloody slumber, he finds nothing but death surrounds him.
The plaza is filled with the carcasses of the slaughtered. Corpses hang from monuments, leaving one to wonder how they got up there in the first place. There are no survivors, aside from him.
Rayeln's army is dead. All of them. So is the swat team. The last of those who stood against the mighty Scourge is hunched over his blade still. Rayeln almost feels like keeping the corpse as a memento of the occasion. Instead he just lets it slump off and begin the decaying process.
Rayeln hunches over. Maybe it's the blood loss but he feels... doubt. His army was made up of men, women, and children. He's sent them all to their deaths for a cause that benefits him and him alone. Perhaps he was no better than the thousands of aristocrats who've died at his blade. Perhaps he's no populist, but simply another greedy bastard attempting to exploit the lower class and gain power.
Perhaps in trying to destroy the aristocracy... he's become one.
Rayeln shrugs and decides it's DEFINITELY the blood loss. He saunters off with a spring in his step to attempt to find medical aid post-haste.
---
He comes upon a small children's clinic situated in between what Rayeln's named the Temple of the Great Bearded Man and the House of Aristocratic Dead People in Funeral Suits. He stumbles in. The receptionist is clearly shocked by the appearance of this large, bloodied, bearded cossack wielding a laser sword.
Rayeln gives her his best smile, exposing his somewhat-rotten teeth as he asks in his most jovial, folksy tone:
"HELLO COMRADE RECEPTIONIST I AM IN NEED OF DOCTOR. YOU SEE I AM RATHER COVERED IN HOLES FROM PRIMITIVE LEAD BULLETS YOUR PEOPLE USE AND I BELIEVE I NEED THEM COVERED BEFORE MY BODY LOSES ALL BLOOD AND I DIE. CAN YOU LEND ASSISTANCE, MISTER COMRADE RECEPTIONIST?"
The receptionist sighs. This is only the third craziest thing he's seen. He points to the right.
A few hours pass. Rayeln exits the hospital covered in gauze. He also requested a band-aid adorned with the face of a Great Red-Bearded Monster. The doctor told him this monster's name is "Elmo." Truly, the image of such a fiery beast will strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.
Rayeln thinks of the deer. He will not be pleased with this development. But no matter! An enemy army has been slain, and Rayeln lives! It is a victory, no doubt, a cause for celebration! Rayeln takes a gulp from the flask he keeps at his hip.
Rayeln walks forth, prepared to kill all who stand in his path to power.
Rayeln grins from ear to ear. The local S.W.A.T. team lines up on the other side of the empty plaza. Their guns are drawn, and their men are dripping with nervous sweat.
"Sir, we order you to drop your weapon and disperse your crowd. This is the only warning we will issue you. We have been authorized to fire."
Rayeln ignores the man. His voice shakes. No way to intimidate an enemy! Furthermore his stance does not convey to his troops any sort of power, any sort of force. Men respond to strength! A good leader must appear strong.
Rayeln sets his feet at shoulder width, raises his sword, and cries out in his loud, booming voice, "COMRADES! THE TIME IS NOW! LET US SLAUGHTER THE ARMY OF THESE CAPITALIST PIG WHORE DOG ARISTOCRATS! THE AGE OF RAYELNISM APPROACHES!"
He takes a slightly more dignified stance, slowly walking up and down his line.
"You who fight and die with me today will be marked in the annals of history as those who brought a great leader to power! Your names will be known by every schoolchild in this nation! Except probably only the first names, ink is very expensive. But no matter, your names!"
He proudly raises his sword into the air. "Let us not forget what we have fought for till today! Let us not forget the men we have lost! Let us not forget all that there is to ga----"
"Fire!"
A volley of gunfire rings out, automatic weapons blaring out as a good chunk of the crowd falls.
"CHARGE!"
The horde rushes forward. Most men are armed only with sticks, rocks, and random bits of debris found around the offices they rampaged through. The officers, on the other hand, are armed with automatic weapons.
Rayeln grins. This is the Rultzvenian way of war! Get as many men as you can and throw them all at the enemy, regardless of how poorly trained or badly equipped they are!
As the rush continues, the crowd grows thin. Morale wavers. Some fall on the ground, offering surrender. Others run away, hoping to evade the next volley of gunfire. Few remain by Rayeln's side in his charge towards the S.W.A.T. team.
Rayeln himself takes a bullet to the shoulder, the knees, the gut, and the neck. "No matter!" he says to himself. It's not like he uses those parts anyway!
The charge finally meets the line of S.W.A.T. Rayeln is like a rabid badger, swinging his axe left and right. Upon meeting his enemies, he kills 3 with one swipe of his laser cutlass. Indeed, their armor is no match for such a fine weapon.
A redness fills Rayeln's eyes. Suddenly these men are not officers of the law of these new foreign aristocrats. No! They are the noble pig scum who bore his father away from his fief, his land, his title! The blood of his drunk, noble father fills Rayeln's veins as he goes into a crazed berserker's frenzy, shouting, "FOR PAPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
Rayeln blacks out, his mind incapable of comprehending the liters of blood squirting out from all around him. His body carries forward, slashing and cutting at every soft thing he sees.
When he awakens from this bloody slumber, he finds nothing but death surrounds him.
The plaza is filled with the carcasses of the slaughtered. Corpses hang from monuments, leaving one to wonder how they got up there in the first place. There are no survivors, aside from him.
Rayeln's army is dead. All of them. So is the swat team. The last of those who stood against the mighty Scourge is hunched over his blade still. Rayeln almost feels like keeping the corpse as a memento of the occasion. Instead he just lets it slump off and begin the decaying process.
Rayeln hunches over. Maybe it's the blood loss but he feels... doubt. His army was made up of men, women, and children. He's sent them all to their deaths for a cause that benefits him and him alone. Perhaps he was no better than the thousands of aristocrats who've died at his blade. Perhaps he's no populist, but simply another greedy bastard attempting to exploit the lower class and gain power.
Perhaps in trying to destroy the aristocracy... he's become one.
Rayeln shrugs and decides it's DEFINITELY the blood loss. He saunters off with a spring in his step to attempt to find medical aid post-haste.
---
He comes upon a small children's clinic situated in between what Rayeln's named the Temple of the Great Bearded Man and the House of Aristocratic Dead People in Funeral Suits. He stumbles in. The receptionist is clearly shocked by the appearance of this large, bloodied, bearded cossack wielding a laser sword.
Rayeln gives her his best smile, exposing his somewhat-rotten teeth as he asks in his most jovial, folksy tone:
"HELLO COMRADE RECEPTIONIST I AM IN NEED OF DOCTOR. YOU SEE I AM RATHER COVERED IN HOLES FROM PRIMITIVE LEAD BULLETS YOUR PEOPLE USE AND I BELIEVE I NEED THEM COVERED BEFORE MY BODY LOSES ALL BLOOD AND I DIE. CAN YOU LEND ASSISTANCE, MISTER COMRADE RECEPTIONIST?"
The receptionist sighs. This is only the third craziest thing he's seen. He points to the right.
A few hours pass. Rayeln exits the hospital covered in gauze. He also requested a band-aid adorned with the face of a Great Red-Bearded Monster. The doctor told him this monster's name is "Elmo." Truly, the image of such a fiery beast will strike fear into the hearts of his enemies.
Rayeln thinks of the deer. He will not be pleased with this development. But no matter! An enemy army has been slain, and Rayeln lives! It is a victory, no doubt, a cause for celebration! Rayeln takes a gulp from the flask he keeps at his hip.
Rayeln walks forth, prepared to kill all who stand in his path to power.