Re: The Relentless Slaughter [Round 3: Tormentorland]
06-29-2012, 08:10 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
Vuul had failed.
The Tormentor had demanded sacrifice-- the epitome of his faith had demanded slaughter and bloodshed and the cleansing purification offered by the holy flame. Soggoth, in his brief moments of gnashing and gnawing at the Alvum's mind, had demanded bloodshed; he had lustily craved the surrender of blood to satisfy his coming. Carnage was all that was required of Vuul to entertain the mercurial whims of his master, and he had failed. The Tormentor had reshaped his form-- providing a body capable of swiftly coursing through the seas of S'kkoi. He was to torpedo through the water, bringing righteous deliverance upon its inhabitants, bringing the mercy of death to the captives the Tormentor had seen fit to entertain the Alvum with.
And yet Vuul had failed in his duty. He had no responsibility in the slaughter that occurred; he was not a participant but merely a weak, cowardly observer. He was foolish to think himself a conduit of the Prime Alumvaeum when he was incapable in succeeding in the orchestration of the Tormentor's will. All that was required of him, all that was demanded of him-- he had failed in his duties. The biological euphoria of revelation had died down, the pheromones that drove his ardent faith into ecstasy had been reduced to trace concentrations. Vuul was alone, dealing with his failure. He was foolish to think himself a conduit when he was but an insignificant speck, a fumbling inferior with heretical dreams of rising above his station.
Vuul had failed. There was no possible penance-- no quantity of carnage, no exemplary display of annihilation to perform to appease the cruelties of the Tormentor. Nothing that could bring atonement for the Alvum's failure.
The alien paused, taking in his new set of surroundings. A promenade of concession stands lined one half of his panoramic field of vision, while the other half consisted of an amalgam of other edifices. In the distance he could see towering metal sculptures, marked with specks of movement as trains hurtled along their rails. Further, past even the most distant of these colossal skeletons, Vuul could see the gathering storm. It was clear he was no longer favored by the Tormentor-- his god had chosen to enact his own retribution. Vuul was no longer the chosen harbinger of The Chaos Unconquerable. He was forsaken by his god. He was caste-less, separate from the false Hierarchy. He was alone.
His optical circlet refocused, drawing itself into a tighter focus around the crowds surrounding him. Many of those around him were the hated humans-- weak, pathetic, unworthy of the sharing in the vision the Prime offered. What interested him was the decorations they bore-- their clothing was adorned with icons of the now-dead Rollo, the captive that the Tormentor had judged unworthy. Yet, even after his death his existence was remembered. The sensation of religious trance almost inched into the Alvum-- he could not help but compare the park to the religion he was used to. It was a false religion, to be cast down, but it had the trappings of a true faith. The paraphernalia its petitioners were adorned in was comparable to the accoutrements of the Hierarchy's faithful; the processions of followers riding the metal machines could almost be likened to the penance rituals of the Alvum, where pain was willingly endured in the hope of redemption. It was a false religion, but he had been cast aside. His faith had rejected him.
Mechanical actuators hissed and hooves clapped against pavement as Vuul set off. Somewhere in this locale was a new faith, one willing to accept a petitioner such as himself.
Vuul had failed.
The Tormentor had demanded sacrifice-- the epitome of his faith had demanded slaughter and bloodshed and the cleansing purification offered by the holy flame. Soggoth, in his brief moments of gnashing and gnawing at the Alvum's mind, had demanded bloodshed; he had lustily craved the surrender of blood to satisfy his coming. Carnage was all that was required of Vuul to entertain the mercurial whims of his master, and he had failed. The Tormentor had reshaped his form-- providing a body capable of swiftly coursing through the seas of S'kkoi. He was to torpedo through the water, bringing righteous deliverance upon its inhabitants, bringing the mercy of death to the captives the Tormentor had seen fit to entertain the Alvum with.
And yet Vuul had failed in his duty. He had no responsibility in the slaughter that occurred; he was not a participant but merely a weak, cowardly observer. He was foolish to think himself a conduit of the Prime Alumvaeum when he was incapable in succeeding in the orchestration of the Tormentor's will. All that was required of him, all that was demanded of him-- he had failed in his duties. The biological euphoria of revelation had died down, the pheromones that drove his ardent faith into ecstasy had been reduced to trace concentrations. Vuul was alone, dealing with his failure. He was foolish to think himself a conduit when he was but an insignificant speck, a fumbling inferior with heretical dreams of rising above his station.
Vuul had failed. There was no possible penance-- no quantity of carnage, no exemplary display of annihilation to perform to appease the cruelties of the Tormentor. Nothing that could bring atonement for the Alvum's failure.
The alien paused, taking in his new set of surroundings. A promenade of concession stands lined one half of his panoramic field of vision, while the other half consisted of an amalgam of other edifices. In the distance he could see towering metal sculptures, marked with specks of movement as trains hurtled along their rails. Further, past even the most distant of these colossal skeletons, Vuul could see the gathering storm. It was clear he was no longer favored by the Tormentor-- his god had chosen to enact his own retribution. Vuul was no longer the chosen harbinger of The Chaos Unconquerable. He was forsaken by his god. He was caste-less, separate from the false Hierarchy. He was alone.
His optical circlet refocused, drawing itself into a tighter focus around the crowds surrounding him. Many of those around him were the hated humans-- weak, pathetic, unworthy of the sharing in the vision the Prime offered. What interested him was the decorations they bore-- their clothing was adorned with icons of the now-dead Rollo, the captive that the Tormentor had judged unworthy. Yet, even after his death his existence was remembered. The sensation of religious trance almost inched into the Alvum-- he could not help but compare the park to the religion he was used to. It was a false religion, to be cast down, but it had the trappings of a true faith. The paraphernalia its petitioners were adorned in was comparable to the accoutrements of the Hierarchy's faithful; the processions of followers riding the metal machines could almost be likened to the penance rituals of the Alvum, where pain was willingly endured in the hope of redemption. It was a false religion, but he had been cast aside. His faith had rejected him.
Mechanical actuators hissed and hooves clapped against pavement as Vuul set off. Somewhere in this locale was a new faith, one willing to accept a petitioner such as himself.